


The Red Truth

by HerBrazenElegance



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Minor Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-06
Updated: 2012-12-06
Packaged: 2017-11-20 11:13:32
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 862
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/584778
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HerBrazenElegance/pseuds/HerBrazenElegance
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Malik's point of view during the events at Solomon's Temple.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Red Truth

**Author's Note:**

> Fffff so this is my first story, inspired by an image by sirbluemoustache on deviantart  
> I welcome any criticism so long as it's not too cruel, though some of you might hate me after reading~

“No!” Malik screamed.

Too late. Robert de Sable had already thrown Altaïr into the other room and split the wood of the support beam that created a wall if fallen stone between him and the brothers.

“Kill the assassins!” Robert commanded.

Outnumbered by one, they drew their weapons, and with a hardly a moment to curse Altaïr for his stupidity and arrogance, Robert fell upon Malik with vicious force, his henchmen taking on Kadar.

“You will die here because of your foolish friend,” Robert spat with his throaty French. Their swords clanged several times just through this one sentence, de Sable’s flurry of swings raining down on him. It was all Malik could do to keep up with the man, and in the back of his mind he panicked for his brother.

“Not if I can help it,” Malik retorted, equally fluent. He dodged a wide horizontal swing that left Robert dangerously open and went in to attack, but he was fast and deflected it at the last second. Behind him, Malik heard one of the men attacking Kadar cry out in agony and knew he had landed a deadly blow. He smiled proudly at Robert, not risking a glance back at the events.

“I would not be smiling so victoriously yet, assassin,” Robert snarled. “You will tire soon.” He swung hard and sent Malik stumbling backward.

Like hell he would. Robert’s taunts succeeded in inspiring anger in him, though, and so he doubled back relentlessly. The Frenchman was surprised but fought back with frustrating ease. Malik struggled to reel in his rage, always favoring caution and careful to not begin swinging blindly.

Then Kadar cried out.

Malik whipped around in time to see the enemy’s sword pulling out of a large flower of blood blooming from his brother’s abdomen. Kadar dropped his blade and shakily reached out to his attacker in vain, then sank to the floor.

Malik saw red. He turned back to Robert de Sable and slammed his blade against his hard enough to send him to the ground, then he turned to his brother’s assailant and tore into him with all the fury of a demon. The man, caught completely off-guard, fell dead to the ground in seconds.

Robert used his enemy’s rage to his advantage and came down on Malik just before he turned to face him. The sword sank into his arm above the elbow, just short of breaking the bone in half, and successfully neutralized the Syrian. He growled in pain and dropped his blade to favor the gushing wound as Robert sheathed his own weapon.

“You and your kind are fighting a war you will never win,” he said calmly. “You would do better to give up already. Now bleed out and die quietly.” As he said this, he came close to Malik, pointing a finger to his chest and punctuating the sentence with a knee to his groin. Then he simply walked away, leaving Malik and the holy treasure he had come for, leaving the aftermath of a battle that had nearly been for nothing.

Malik sank to his knees from the pain of de Sable’s blow. The adrenaline slowed down in his veins and was replaced by a worsening ache. He glanced at his brother and his heart contracted. Crawling on his knees and one arm, he eventually knelt by Kadar and pulled his head into his lap, checked his breathing, his pulse, wiped the blood from his lips.

There was nothing. No rise and fall of his chest, no constant warm beat in his neck. He was already gone, before there was ever time to comfort him and say goodbye.

He fought it at first, that urge to scream and pound the walls and the burning sensation in the back of his throat that beckoned him over the edge. But there was no fight left in him now.

“Kadar…” He moaned, face contorted with anguish. The knot in his chest finally released as the tears spilled out and fell to his lifeless brother’s face. He wept openly, his body wracked with sobs and curled around his only family member. He kissed Kadar’s forehead and stroked his cheek with the thumb of his still-functioning arm, reminding him of the physical pain as well. If only they had been three and not two.

“Damn it, Altaïr,” Malik growled, and then his heart filled with not sadness but anger. This would never have happened if it weren’t for him, weren’t for his fucking arrogance. If only he had listened!

“You BASTARD!” He shouted into the darkness through his tears, the insult echoing off the walls.

It was a long while before he composed himself. He breathed deeply and rubbed his face on his sleeve, still shaking from his emotions. Their task was not yet completed, and slowly his sense of duty returned. He raised and immediately regretted having to leave his beloved Kadar in this miserable place, wrecked and cold and full of death, but being truly alone now he saw no other way. If Altaïr would not listen to his master’s order, to the creed they had been raised by, then Malik would.


End file.
